Dreaming of a Nightmare
by Skyskater
Summary: So I'm rooming with this guy in university. His name reeks of everything that he is. I hate him already. RenBya AU
1. He's Loaded

**This is for jaguar003, who is really patient and whom I admire greatly for his/her patience.**

* * *

I hate moving days.

I especially hate moving days in which nobody is there to help you carry your boxes up the five flights of stairs, because the elevator is broken and the service elevator is apparently only usable by janitors.

Because your friends are all moving in to different colleges, and because you don't have any family. Yeah. That's a bummer.

And because you're moving into this teeny tiny dorm room that's not even the size of a public bathroom at a hotel. With another person. Whom you don't know. Another person who is probably really uptight and strict and no fun at all, or another person who is way too much fun and goes out and gets smashed every single night while somehow managing to scrape a passing grade in their classes.

Now, I'm a firm believer in the "all-work-and-no-play-makes-Renji-a-dull-boy" philosophy, but too much fun makes Renji a hungover boy. Every single morning. And I need this. I need to get good grades here, otherwise I'll never make anything of myself.

Just like they did.

My family is gone. All of my relatives are gone. In the word 'gone', I don't mean gone on vacation. I mean they're dead.

None of them got any education because they didn't have enough money because they went out and spent it whenever they got it. As a result of this, they couldn't get a job, and since they couldn't get a job, they couldn't earn any money. They tried begging on the streets for a while, the women whored themselves out at night clubs, but it still wasn't enough, and eventually they all either starved to death, died on the sidewalk, got raped so badly that they bled out, or got killed in a violent gang shooting. Something like that.

And, I mean, I can't say that I want that to happen to me. I want to be something. I want to be someone.

I don't want to be like them.

* * *

I also hate people that are so smug and so "superior" and believe that they are better than you in every sense of the word, even though they don't know your name yet.

And I am rooming with a person that happens to be of this smug and superior type.

I mean, what did I do wrong in my past life to deserve something like this?

Did I kill someone in a very painful way? Did I steal money from someone? Did I rape a child? What the hell did I do?

* * *

The guy I'm rooming with is a sophomore at university. I'm a freshman. Even though there's only a year's difference (or even less than that, it's also totally possible I'm older than him; this guy looks like he skipped a few grades back in the day) between us, he acts like he's a senior. He's cold and indifferent, and acts superior to everybody, and will also act like that towards me, I'm sure. After all, I'm nothing but a street rat who got lucky, while he looks like one of those rich kids who's bored all the time because nothing's exotic to them anymore. One of those rich kids that spends money on everything and anything from cocaine to gold plated rims for their cars. One of those rich kids who stares down on the street rats with contempt and can't be bothered to spare a few bucks even though they're wearing designer jeans and expensive Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.

His name is Byakuya Kuchiki. Even his name reeks of noble status and money, and 'loaded.' His family has got to be.

I hate him already.


	2. He's a Street Rat

I hate having to room with someone that I don't know. Someone that I don't, and probably never will, care about in my entire life. I hate having to share my personal space with someone.

Sure. I'm rich. It's all fine and good. But I sacrificed. I gave up my apartment money so that my wife could get the best medical care. And it didn't matter, best care or not. She up and died, anyway. As a result, I'm left with no wife and no apartment and one juvenile sister that I'm not actually related to but that I have to lie to as part of my deceased wife's last wishes.

I married early. I married poorly. I married someone who left me, someone who I watched walk away.

And I hate that.

I hate having to sit back and stare as the people I love leave me, and know that there is nothing I can do.

I might have loads of money, but that doesn't really count for anything when you are forced to sit by your spouse's death bed and watch her slip away.

I hate feeling helpless.

* * *

Have I also mentioned that I hate people who are completely out there? I mean, like REALLY out there. Like those people that go and dye their hair purple and wear really huge spiked collars connected to chains and have like, twenty piercings. This guy, my new roommate, is OUT THERE. But not too far out there that I can't bring him back to the ranks of the sane.

He has this bright red long hair that he keeps tied up and held back from his forehead with a bandanna, and he has these tattoos everywhere. Not to mention that he's at least six feet tall. I mean, one look at him and he's oozing the word 'streets.' I mean, even his NAME, Abarai Renji, just reeks of 'street rat'. Seriously.

And the gang tattoos don't exactly make it easier to believe that he's a member of civilized society.

* * *

Why couldn't I have been rooming with some other person? Why couldn't I have been roommates with that shy guy down the hall? Seriously. What did I do to deserve this?

* * *

He's a year younger than me. I'm a sophomore here, and he's a freshman. The first year I stayed at home because I was still scraping up enough money for dorm fees. This year, my family kicked me out. You know, they're still mad at me about the whole illegitimate marriage and stuff to a poor girl from a bad family. But whatever.

While he's only a year younger than me, Renji is extremely immature, and I can tell he's going to be the kind of roommate that steals all your pens when you're not looking and then claims that he didn't do it. I can tell he's going to be the kind of guy that stays up all night cramming for a test and then his brain freezes when he's actually at the exam.

I can tell that this is someone.

Someone worth knowing.

I can tell that he tries. By the way he holds himself, his straight backed posture. By the gleam in those amber eyes. The gleam that says, "No way am I going to let anybody get me down."

I can tell that he doesn't want to be what he is. That he doesn't want to be a common street rat, that he doesn't want to be underestimated. And I can tell that he's smarter than he looks.

His name is Renji Abarai. It reeks of street rat and determination.

I hate him already.

But at the same time, I feel a grudging respect and admiration for him.


	3. He Interests Me

I don't know what it is about him, but there's something about him that makes me want to punch him in the face. Or maybe soak his sheets with Gatorade. Or maybe steal all his pens when he's not looking and then claim that I didn't do it.

I'm homesick.

It's my first night at college, and the uptight dick is already in bed. Beauty sleep or something. Have to go to bed at nine PM sharp otherwise I'll get wrinkles in the morning. Yeah. He's that kind of guy. Brushes his hair a hundred strokes before going to bed, and then wakes up early to do the whole thing over again, I'm betting.

I don't sleep much. Because I have no control over what I see in my sleep. And no control means more nightmares. So as a result, I don't sleep as much as I should. And to keep myself from sleeping, I'm watching my roommate. Because I have nothing better to be doing.

When I do go to sleep, I want to be drugged up and in La-La Land. I want it to be a dreamless, white sleep. But I don't have sleeping pills with me. I need to get some more from the pharmacy.

Oh. The guy's moving. Tossing and turning in his bed. Having a wet dream? I think sarcastically.

And then.

It's barely there in the dark room, but the moonlight glistens off it just enough to make it visible, to make it real. It's a tear. Tracking down his cheek. Crystalline, sliding down ivory plains of flesh that are just the slightest bit hollowed.

And I wonder.

I wonder what happened to him.

"Hisana."

It's barely a whisper. Barely anything at all. So quiet it could have been just the slightest gust of wind whispering through the trees outside. But I know. I heard it. I heard him say it. Saw his lips move in the word.

And again. And again. Who is this Hisana? I wonder. A lost lover? A best friend? A dead relative?

I entertain myself with fantasies of who this Hisana person is and what she means to him, but, eventually, I drag myself away from my thoughts and return my attention to him. The tears have started stroking down his face, creating tear tracks, the drops slightly clinging to his lashes. His eyes roll feverishly around, as if looking for somebody. His hands are fisted in the sheets, and I realize that this isn't just any nightmare.

And then he sobs. It's quiet, just like he is, but it's there. And I want to help. No matter how much of an inconsiderate jerk he is, I want to help.

I walk over to his bed and stare down at him. So tearful. So helpless. So vulnerable.

I could kill him right now.

Could wrap my fingers around his throat, twist, and snap. It would only be too easy.

But something stops me. Maybe it's his defenselessness, maybe it's the knowledge that I've found someone like me for once.

My hand lowers itself into his mane of silky dark hair and runs through it, once, twice, again and again. Comforting. Not enough to damage. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to comfort, just enough to lull him back into a dreamless sleep.

I return to my bed and watch, watch as the tears dry on his face, watch as the downward curve of his mouth relaxes, watch as the hands unclench from the sheets. Watch as the chest stops heaving, listen as the quiet sounds of mourning stop completely.

I watch the dawn paint his porcelain face with a golden yellow, and I wonder just who he is. He interests me.


	4. He Watches Me

**Author's Note: If this story turns rated M, would you still read it? Also, if it does turn rated M, who do you want to be on top?**

* * *

I had another nightmare last night.

I seem to do that a lot.

How embarrassing. How childish.

How like me.

The nightmare was short this time, though. It was odd. Usually my nightmares last the entire night, leaving me tossing, turning, leaving me waking up in a cold sweat, my sheets strangling me.

But this one was short. And not graphic at all.

It was just her, Hisana, walking away from me. And then, nothing else. No killings, no rapings, no abductions. Nothing like that. Just her walking, walking, walking away.

And then I begin to wonder if Renji saw.

* * *

I begin to contemplate what to say about it. I begin to wonder if he saw, and if he did, what he did about it.

I begin to wonder what he thinks about me now.

And, strangely enough, I don't fear it.

* * *

After a long day of lectures, I'm ready to tuck in, but I want to see observe. I want to see him. What he does. If he has nightmares, too.

It wouldn't surprise me if he did.

It does surprise me, when, from the very slightest triangle of sight, I see him staring at me. Staring, staring. Not going to sleep. Not lying down and curling up under the covers.

He watches me.

I find this intriguing. He intrigues me.

* * *

Hisana used to stroke my hair.

She liked to play with it, claiming that it was soft to the touch and silky and it was like the hair she'd always wanted but had never gotten.

I let her do whatever she wanted with it, because she was her.

Her hands were warm and smooth and soft. They were one of the few things I will always remember about her.

* * *

Renji intrigues me even more when he gets out of bed and starts walking toward me.

I quickly close my eyes fully so that he doesn't suspect.

So that he doesn't know.

And when he stops by my bed, I can feel his eyes on me. Watching.

But for what?

And then, I hear his clothes rustle as he moves, and I wonder what he is doing.

Then I feel it.

I feel a hand on my throat, feather light touch. And I vaguely wonder if he is going to kill me.

And then the hand moves up, up, up, not touching my face except to brush a stray strand of hair off my forehead.

And then he strokes.

* * *

Renji's hands are large and rough and callused. But they are as gentle as Hisana's ever were.

Fingers comb through my hair lightly, making sure not to get tangled, making sure not to "wake" me.

The palm of his hand brushes against my scalp, leaving raw sensation in its wake.

And I wonder if he wants me.

* * *

He does this until dawn paints my face a golden yellow, and then he slips away, back to his own bed.

I have this intense desire to sit up and call him back, to tell him that I liked it, to tell him that I want more.

But I can't.

Because then he'd know.

And if he knew, he might never do it again.

And I want him to do it again.

I wonder just who he is.


	5. He's Crazy

I know he was awake. I know he was wondering what I was up to.

He's like an open book, and I can read him.

Maybe too well.

He pretended to be sleeping, but I knew he was awake. I could tell.

* * *

What is it about him? What does he want to know about me? Why does he want to know about me?

All that I was, all that I ever am, all that I ever will be, is so easy to find. A few keystrokes, a few clicks, and you can find my entire life story.

I wonder if I should tell him.

I wonder if he would want to know.

I wonder...what he would think.

What he would think if he read up on me.

Would he still be roommates with me? Or would he move out, and leave me here? Alone?

* * *

I was in juvie for nine years. The maximum juvie sentence.

I killed someone. My mother's boyfriend, to be exact. He was evil. He was mean. He hated her, and he hated me.

He used her.

I remember it.

The nights where I would hear her sobbing after he had left, sobbing because it hurt and she couldn't do anything to make the hurt go away. Sobbing because she didn't want this, but she had to do it so that we could live.

He raped her. Night after night after night. And it never stopped.

And one night, he came to our house drunk. So drunk that he opened the wrong door.

He didn't open hers that night. He opened mine.

He came into my room, held me down, tugged down my pajama bottoms, and hurt me hurt me hurt me zipped up his jeans smiled and left.

It was pure agony, and hours after he left, I could still smell the alcohol on his breath and I was still bleeding.

* * *

And then another time he came to our house sober. My mom was out doing some errands, and he was waiting for her to come back. Without him seeing me, I went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find.

I went back to the living room, where he was sleeping on the couch, and stabbed him stabbed him stabbed him smiled put the knife in the sink and left.

The couch was painted vermilion with his life.

* * *

They knew it was me. They sentenced me without a second thought. They put me in juvie, made me go to counseling classes because I had a "problem." They never asked me why I did it, never asked me why I killed him. They never asked me what the deal was with the blood soaked sheets in my room, never asked me about the bloody pajamas.

But you know, the thing about juvie is this:

They need more room in those places. So they get rid of the "good" kids. But they don't check those kids' records, don't check to see what crimes they committed.

I was one of the 'good' kids.

* * *

If Byakuya were to read up on me, what would he think of me then?

Would he ignore it and pretend everything was alright? Or would he run away from me, screaming for his life?

For some odd reason, I'm more inclined to think he'd take the former option. He seems too calm and too collected to run away.

But why does he stay? Why does he want to be this close to someone like me?

He makes me want to understand.

He's crazy.


	6. He Keeps Secrets

**For future reference, this story starts two years after Renji was released from juvie.**

* * *

I admit it. I was bored out of my mind.

I didn't want to study, didn't want to do homework, didn't want to go to sleep and drown out my worries.

I Googled his name.

Renji Abarai. Eleven characters, not counting the space in between.

Eleven is a significant number in Christian beliefs. Eleven is the number of Jesus's apostles, excluding the treacherous Judas Iscariot.

When I Googled him and pulled up his life story, there were exactly eleven pages of pictures, writing, script, comments, interviews.

Apparently he had been in juvenile hall for seven years of his life for murder.

He had been admitted into the place when he was nine. He had been let out early on account of good behavior when he was sixteen.

I couldn't imagine this. Was this really the same person who had come over and stroked my hair with such tenderness?

Could they really be one and the same person?

I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it.

I couldn't, and wouldn't, believe that I was roommates with a murderer.

* * *

Nine years old. He was only nine years old.

He stabbed his mother's boyfriend to death on their white living room couch.

I don't believe it.

What's worse, I don't believe that he tried to deny it, too.

In the interviews, they script him as saying, "But he hurt me first. He hurt me first! He pulled down my pants and hurt me. So I hurt him back."

The childish ravings of a delirious nine year old. Lost and confused and probably more than a little suited to go to the Funny Farm.

* * *

Childish logic.

The whole 'eye for an eye' theory. The whole 'you hurt me, I'll kill you' idea.

I don't understand.

I don't understand why they would let anybody like him out of juvenile detention/jail, let alone into college.

I don't understand why they would let him go early for good behavior.

I don't understand why he isn't in a mental institution.

His brains are more than a little scrambled, and I think counseling would be a good option for him.

I don't understand how I get stuck with him.

* * *

It is distasteful to look down upon the mentally insane.

But when he was nine years old, Renji was NOT mentally insane.

I know that for a fact.

They might not have any mental competency test records for him, and they might not have any medical records of the lack of mental disease in his family history. But I could tell that, when he was nine, at least, he was completely sane.

I know that he was completely in his right mind at that time.

At the time when he raised the knife and stabbed his mother's boyfriend to death on their white living room couch.

The pictures are there. The mug shots of him are there. His eyes are crystal clear, sharp, and unrepentant.

He knew. He knew what he did, that what he did was wrong. And, if you looked just a little further into those amber depths, you would see that he knew that he was right.

* * *

How did he think he could get away with this?

Why didn't he tell me?

Did he think I wouldn't find out?

What else is there about him that I don't know about?

I fear for my life now.

He keeps secrets.


	7. He's Skeptical

**Have you figured out the story's secret yet?**

* * *

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I think I fucked up. Big time.

Somewhere along the line, I fucked up.

Byakuya knows.

Shit crap fuck.

I expand my vocabulary.

* * *

Okay. I guess I had it coming.

I guess I kind of expected that he would find out eventually.

What I didn't expect was that it would hurt so much.

* * *

Did you know that there's a myth that dogs bark because they can see ghosts?

There's a dog barking outside my window now. Not a tiny yip yap, like a Yorkie. A deep bark, almost a growl. Kind of like a German shepherd. Maybe a border collie.

My mother's boyfriend had a Yorkie.

Fucking bastard. Of course he'd have a fucking annoying dog.

I think the ghosts of my past are coming back to taunt me.

Fuck this crap. I don't believe in ghosts.

* * *

There is a doorway down the end of the hall.

A doorway with a closed door.

I've never seen anybody go in there, and I've never seen anybody come out.

Somehow, something makes me think that whatever's behind that door isn't just a place for people to go have wild passionate sex in between classes. Something tells me that whatever's behind that door isn't the contents of a janitor's closet.

Maybe someone's hiding a dirty little secret?

A few skeletons in the closet, perhaps?

Wouldn't it be freaky if it was actually a skeleton?

* * *

Byakuya doesn't look me in the eye anymore.

It's as if he doesn't want to look at me, doesn't want to believe that he's sharing a room with a murderer.

If anything, at least he's not sharing a room with a pedophile, a sexual offender, or a rapist, right?

Right?

* * *

Byakuya is staring at me out of the corner of his eye. I can feel his gaze crystal hard on me.

I can feel the words I want to say choking in my throat.

Even if I said them, even I told him the truth, would he really have believed me in the first place?

Something tells me that he would have dismissed my side of the story as "childish logic that I probably invented in a case of denial so that I wouldn't have to cope with the situation at hand."

Something out of a Chicken Soup book.

Something, anything except the words "I believe you."

He's skeptical, and I don't know if I can convince him to see the truth.

I mean, even when I say it, it sounds absurd.

"When I was nine years old, I got raped by a man, so I killed him."

Yeah right. As if anyone would believe that. Least of all Byakuya.

* * *

I'm a healthy eighteen year old guy. I jack off. Like every other guy my age does. Except for maybe Byakuya.

I jack off in the shower. Overhead fan eliminates most of the noise, running water blurs out the rest. Plus there's no mess to clean up, and your roommate won't notice the bottle of lotion or wad of toilet paper next to your bed or your laptop.

God. There's nothing like jacking off in a warm shower. Something about it is just invigorating.

When the white splatters across the shower tiles, it reminds me of the white sofa I had at my childhood house.

The strands of scarlet on the floor remind me of vermilion life.


	8. He's Dangerous

**This story hides a secret in its words.**

* * *

I don't understand why a nine year old would make something of that nature up.

Children, in general, are supposed to be white. Supposed to be pure, innocent. White as freshly fallen snow.

Renji clearly wasn't.

What could have happened to him that would have made him tell such a huge and unbelievable lie? Something of great enormity, I'm sure.

But something soiled Renji's childhood.

Something spilled black paint on the blank canvas of his life.

The snow turned dirty.

Dirty snow melts faster than clean.

The innocence was gone before he even had a chance to experience it. At nine years old, or maybe even before that, he was already in the real world.

But how? And who? And...why?

* * *

I don't even want to consider the other option.

The possibility that Renji just might have been telling the truth.

It's absurd.

It's impossible.

What kind of man would have raped a little boy?

What kind of little boy would have had the strength to kill a full grown man?

What kind of cruel thoughts are dancing behind those amber eyes, the amber eyes that watch me?

What kind of person is he, really?

* * *

Murderer. Liar. Secret-keeper.

Of all these things that Renji is, I do not know which one is the worst.

Murdering and lying condemned his soul to Hell.

I don't doubt that.

But where does keeping secrets factor in?

Is he the hidden Judas Iscariot, waiting to stab down anybody that opposes his way of thought?

The hidden wild card in the deck?

The humble servant that kills the king in chess?

Or is he just a person that made mistakes in his life and regrets them?

* * *

I don't believe the latter question.

His eyes still show that defiance, determination. That anger bubbling beneath the surface.

The hidden person that shows through when the outer spirit doesn't have enough control.

I want to break down the outer shell.

I want to see inside.

See inside him, and see just who he is. What he's hiding.

* * *

I know that Renji doesn't really have friends at this university. My guess is that he doesn't have any friends at all, or that his friends are somewhere else.

So what's keeping him sane now?

What's keeping him from breaking down and killing somebody?

One can murder. One can do it again. And it only seems like it would be even easier now.

* * *

I am his roommate. In general, street rats hate the upper class.

I'm upper class.

What's stopping him from killing me?

We're a month into the school year. He could have killed me at any time.

Why is he waiting?

* * *

You hear these stories about some college kid going berserk, bringing a gun to school, and taking out half of the student body.

But you always think to yourself: "Oh, those things happen at other colleges. Not my college."

But you know, your college is 'another college' to another college.

* * *

I would change rooms. But there aren't any available. And my family won't let me live with them another year. And I don't have enough cash for an inn.

His hands reach out for a knife to cut up vegetables with for dinner, and I can't help it. My body tenses. I'm scared. I admit it.

He's dangerous.


	9. He Seduces Me

**Hmmm...this story is probably going to turn very dark shortly.**

* * *

Byakuya is gorgeous. I don't know how else to put it.

He has long, silky, ebony hair that he takes good care of. He's willowy, tall and slender. Kind of like a model.

With a little bit of pretending, you could almost imagine he was a girl.

I don't really understand girls that much. I didn't understand my mother very much. Case in point: My mother was a girl.

Okay. So yeah. I admit it.

I'm this side of the line of straightness. I'm WAY over on this side.

I like guys.

There. I said it.

I guess it only took me eighteen years of my life to realize it.

And Byakuya certainly helped with that epiphany.

* * *

I don't know exactly what started my fascination with boys.

I mean, you would have thought that I'd have been mentally scarred and kept to myself after, well, after I got raped. But no. Apparently not.

I don't get it myself. It's weird.

I mean, am I a masochist? Or...what would you call this kind of thing?

Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I have a disease.

Or maybe...just maybe, I'm perfectly normal.

* * *

The past few evenings, in the shower, I've been jacking off to Byakuya.

I don't understand it.

The guy has barely said ten words to me, and already I'm falling hard for him.

I guess it's his innocence.

There's something about him, this aura he gives off. It reeks of innocence and pureness and ivory. It reeks of everything that I'm not: filthiness and dirt and scum.

And maybe I'm jealous.

Maybe I wish I was pure.

* * *

I used to sleep with a teddy bear when I was younger.

I named it. His name was Gary. He was my favorite, my only, toy. I loved him with all my heart.

The night that my mother's boyfriend stomped in my room and raped me, Gary was nowhere to be found.

In the morning, when I woke up disoriented, hurting, and nauseous, I saw the tip of one ear poking out from under the bloody linen.

I pulled out Gary from underneath the bloody bedsheets.

Gary's soft fur was crusted over with a dirty layer of white.

And I knew it wouldn't come off.

* * *

Byakuya is so privileged. But I guess I already knew that.

He has everything he's ever wanted, and probably more than what he's wanted.

He's rich, he's loaded, he could have any girl (or guy) he wanted.

And yet he seems sad.

My mind wishes to understand this, but my body wishes for something else.

Something dark and scary, and something I don't want to see. Something I don't want to admit to even myself.

* * *

Night after night after night, he sleeps in his bed not ten feet from me.

The nightmares have stopped, or if they're still there, then he's not showing them.

And I realize how easy it would be, how easy it would be to go over there and do the unspeakable.

I could pin him down to the bed, gag him with the sheets, and thrust and thrust and thrust until I'm drained.

It would be so simple.

My body lusts for this, wants it with a burning passion that doesn't seem to go away.

Night after night after night, I watch him. And I burn with excitement.

He seduces me.


	10. He's Psychotic

**These are actual medications.**

* * *

Renji might think that I can't hear through walls. And yeah, I can't, if they're thick walls.

But I can hear through the wall between our room and the bathroom. It's thin plaster, you see.

And even with the fan on, even with the water running, I can hear him.

Animalistic noises of pleasure, moans, groans, shouts of ecstasy. Sounds of passion. Of pleasure.

Every. Single. Night.

But last night. Last night.

* * *

I was studying for my English literature examination. The textbooks were on my bed, open to the pages.

I was writing notes down in my notebook. And I heard this shout, a shout that made my pen drag across the paper in a streak of azure ink.

"Byakuya!"

My name.

Coming from behind the shower walls.

The person in the shower at that point in time was Renji.

* * *

What do I do?

I mean, this is like saying, "Yeah, I've got a roommate that's a murderer, and he wants to rape me."

No. It's not LIKE saying, it IS saying.

I'm screwed. I will be, literally, if I don't do something soon.

* * *

Did you know that Renji's supposed to be on meds? I say supposed to, and you'll find out why shortly.

I was looking through the medicine cabinet one night for Advil, and I stumbled upon the orange bottles.

Six of them, to be exact. All bearing Renji's name in bold-faced, Times New Roman size 12 font.

Lithium and Tegretol for mood stabilizing. Helping him not be too manic, but not too depressive, either.

Prozac and Lamictal for treating depression.

And, scariest of all.

Zyprexa and Abilify for psychosis.

Psychosis.

I'm living with a psychotic murderer with mood swings and suffering from depression.

So not only did he kill someone, now he's psychotic, too.

Fabulous.

* * *

I went to the American Medical Association's online website. I knew I wasn't going to get any studying done.

Typing in the names of the medications in the bathroom, I came to realize that these were medicines that helped treat schizoaffective disorder.

"The disorder usually begins in early adulthood and is rarely diagnosed in childhood."

"The individual may sleep too much, or, most often, not be able to sleep at all."

But even though the symptoms fit, that wasn't the scariest part of the whole thing.

* * *

All six of the bottles were full to the brim. Unopened. Even though the date on the labels says he got them over six months ago.

He's not taking his meds.

* * *

"If psychosis is left untreated, the individual may experience delusions."

"The individual may believe an outside force is controlling them."

"The individual may have hallucinations, causing them to believe that something is there when there is nothing."

"Individuals with untreated schizoaffective disorder may experience bizarre or unusual behavior."

Somehow, I can't help but think that this is an excuse.

An excuse for him to kill me, and then blame it on mental instability.

And the court would accept that.

Because "those who are mentally unstable are not held criminally accountable for their actions."

And they would let him go.

A murderer.

* * *

It would be so easy for him to murder me. Have his way with me, then kill me.

All the supplies are at his fingertips, and he's got every advantage he could possibly have over me.

But why is he waiting?


	11. He's Beautiful

**It's time to wrap this story up, folks. But feel free to challenge me. In fact, I encourage it. Go to my profile and see the challenge rules, and you're all set!**

**There are 666 words in every chapter.**

* * *

There's nobody in the building. It's second period, and everybody's in the academic buildings. We're supposed to be in class right now. We're not.

He's tied up to his bed, tears stroking down his face. God. He's fucking gorgeous. Beautiful.

I don't do blindfolds or gags or anything. I want him to see it. See what I'm doing.

* * *

Fucking hell. He's tight. His screams echo through the building, and I can only smile down at him as he thrashes and writhes underneath me.

He's beautiful.

His screams are pretty.

He bleeds, his body hot and tight and wet around me, and my smile stretches to epic proportions as I watch it darken the sheets.

It's beautiful.

If this is hell, please let me stay here.

* * *

I find my orgasm inside him, and I whisper his name into the crook of his neck as I come.

I pull out then, stare at him. He looks at me, a silent plea in his ebony eyes, a silent plea to stop.

I look down at the bloody sheets.

And I frown.

Somehow, it's not beautiful anymore. It's not gorgeous.

He's broken.

I hate broken toys.

* * *

I take his limp body - it's good. He's not trying to resist any more - and carry him gently down the hallway. I make sure no blood hits the floor, make sure that we don't leave a trail.

At the end of the hall, I stop and stare at the doorway. His sobs of pain intensify now. From fear.

Slinging him over one shoulder, the blood staining my clothes, I turn the knob. To my surprise, it opens.

As I suspected, there's nothing in here. It's just a closet.

An empty closet.

Nobody enters, and nobody exits.

But from today, the population of the closet shall be one.

* * *

It's almost as if he doesn't even have any energy left to scream.

But that's okay. He'll be dead silent in a few more minutes anyway.

I cut and mar his perfect flesh with a kitchen knife, the same one I used to cut up vegetables a few nights ago.

I make sure to leave his face intact. Gotta have a pretty face, after all.

A smile graces my face, and then I lean down, poise the tip of the knife over his heart, and smile at him.

Then I shove down.

He is gone.

* * *

I return to my room, the room that is now mine and mine alone.

I leave my bloody clothes on. I'll get caught anyway.

Hopefully if I'm lucky, I'll get a formal execution in the gas chamber.

Besides, Byakuya's body will be found eventually, whether it's by some curious kid opening the door to see if it's a good place to jack off in, or whether it's by the decaying smell that his body will give off in a few weeks.

My name is Renji Abarai. I'm a murderer.

I'm living in a nightmare. Dreaming of a nightmare.

And I can't wake up. No matter what I do, what I feel.

No matter how horrible the deed is, I will not wake from this nightmare.

There's a dog barking outside in the spring afternoon. Funny. It sounds like a Yorkie.


End file.
